


Spilling Over the Idol

by crushcandles



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Biting, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Hand Jobs, M/M, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: It’s a bad day. The mosaic goes wrong, his shirt goes wrong, even he and Eliot (briefly) go wrong.





	Spilling Over the Idol

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of love in my heart for an Eliot who’s a sentimental pervert. Title from [Bedroom Hymns](https://youtu.be/A-vrYeVGGZ0) by Florence and the Machine, because, well.

It's been a long day. Quentin had woken up with a full, clear vision of the next mosaic pattern they could try: colours cascading into each other in complementary pairs before fading to a peaceful white at the edges. It stayed in his mind until he and Eliot had started blocking out the tiles, then it had been hard to put into words the exact colour combinations he had dreamed. From there Quentin had sputtered into indecision and then the pattern had dissolved into nothing special at all, not worth doing.

Eliot had muttered about him being too _zealous_ as he restacked tiles on the side of the mosaic mutinously. Like it was a bad thing, to try so hard. They weren't going to get out of here by not trying. 

"If we leave it, maybe something will come up," Quentin had hedged, hoping to return to that sense of conviction and clarity. There aren’t any rules, they don't have to do it right away. They have nothing but time here.

His next project had been similarly a disaster. Their clothing from when they'd come through the clock is practically rotting off their bodies, Eliot's shirt rough around the hem, Quentin's jeans thin in the thighs. They don't see people often enough to depend on trade, so they have to learn. Magic helps, but it's no real substitute for good old-fashioned sewing. 

It was supposed to be a shirt. Nothing special, just something that didn't have holes in the armpits and a chewed-up collar. After a long hour of cursing, two poked thumbs, and a lot of tangled thread, Quentin held it up. It was nothing like the two identical pieces of fabric he’d started with. The shirtsleeves were vastly different lengths, and the head-hole was small enough for a child. Quentin threw the shirt, needle and all, into the burgeoning scrap basket.

At the table, Eliot had looked up from the knife he was sharpening.

"You can do better than that," he said mildly. He was the picture of calm competence, with the knife and the strop.

" _You_ do better," Quentin had retorted, which was lame. Eliot had snorted; he knew it was lame too.

"Like you look so great," Quentin told him sharply. Two days ago the left knee on Eliot's pants had given up. Quentin could see his skin through the fabric even from where he was sitting.

Eliot held the knife up to the light, turning it this way and that to examine the edge. 

"It's a _look_ ," he said breezily, and flipped the knife so it reflected straight into Quentin's eyes. Quentin ducked, shielding himself.

“Dick,” he told Eliot, with hostility, getting up to get some air.

For dinner, they'd had stew Eliot had made, and it had so many starchy roots in it it was like glue in Quentin’s mouth. It had been such a shitty day that being forced to eat something that felt and tasted like a craft project had been too much to take.

He’d started it by dropping his spoon on the table. The stew was so pasty the spoon didn’t bounce, just stuck there, looking as glum as an abused spoon could.

“What the hell,” he’d asked, “is this?”

Eliot looked up at him from across the table. He was quick to stop stirring his own bowl of glop.

“Food, Quentin. It’s all we have. Shut up and eat it.”

“No!” There was a part of Quentin that was alarmed at how childish he sounded, knew it, and saw it in Eliot’s face. But he was so annoyed at how today had gone off the rails, how nothing had worked even a little, that he was almost glad that Eliot was at bad at cooking as Quentin was at puzzles and sewing. It was a mean little pleasure. 

Then they had fought, yelling for several minutes, standing on opposite sides of the table. Quentin doesn't feel bad about it, exactly. It wasn’t productive, but nothing about today has been, and letting the steam off is probably healthy. Besides, Eliot isn't the type of person who takes yelling about vegetables and attitudes and _stuck here_ very seriously. 

Quentin does feel a little bad for storming out of the cottage, slamming the gummy-hinged door as Eliot told him to get his shit together. But it's not like he's gone far. He's standing in front of today’s first failure, next to the all the stacks of tiles they didn't get to this morning. The sun's gone down, but the torches around the clearing are coming to life, whatever solar spell powers them taking effect. Their fires waver in the cool wind, but they won't go out so easily.

If Eliot looks out the cottage's window, he'll see Quentin just standing here like an idiot, looking at today's stupid pattern, the half-empty board, his own shoes. 

Quentin’s been contemplating the texture of the mosaic board for a while before the door creaks open. Quentin hears the soft scuff of Eliot's shoulder hitting the doorframe. 

"You done yet?" he asks. If Quentin strains, he can hear Eliot crossing his arms.

"I didn't do anything," Quentin says petulantly. He still feels a little unbalanced, and it seems easier to be salty than sorry. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, but there’s still some high-strung energy in him, looking for a place to go.

Eliot sighs his sigh that says he is the most long-suffering human that has ever existed on Earth or Fillory and you need know it. Quentin sighs too, but his lacks the weight of Eliot’s. He puts his hand in his pocket, takes it out again.

The door creaks as it closes, clangs as Eliot pulls on it. Eliot’s old shoes are soft on the dirt as he walks. He doesn’t come up beside Quentin. There’s a moment of silence as Eliot considers him. Finally, Eliot makes some decision, taking one more step, reaching out to put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder.

"Is that so?" he asks, his voice silky smooth. His fingers are a light weight on Quentin's shoulder. They're not pressed together but Quentin knows Eliot is standing right behind him, feels his presence like a prickling. 

Eliot's hand moves, dragging down Quentin's arm, his thumb skipping over Quentin's shirt. From there it jumps, finding Quentin's waist, taking hold. 

Eliot leans in. Quentin hears the moist sound of Eliot’s mouth opening near his ear and can't stop his shiver.

"So you're not acting out?" Eliot rubs his thumb over Quentin's shirt and it feels paper thin, so close Quentin could guess his fingerprint. "You don't just want my attention?"

"No, I—" Quentin has to swallow. His voice is froggy. "I'm not."

Eliot's lean away is conspicuous, a cold gulf between their bodies. His hand stops moving.

"Oh," he says, surprised, the word crisp and cool. He backs up a step and turns Quentin by his shoulders, holds him at arms’ length. 

There's more than enough light out here to see the look on Eliot's face: unsure, like he was so certain, for the hundredth time, that he’d figured the puzzle out, only for it not to work. 

"I meant," Quentin starts to say. But he doesn't have anywhere for that sentence to go. It fizzles out like the rest of today's ideas. He pushes his hair back.

Eliot raises his eyebrows, waiting for it. Looking Quentin over, searching for an answer.

It hits Quentin that he must really look like a fool with no clue at all. Dithering around all day, fucking everything he touched up. Worst of all, acting like a real asshole to the one person he has here. The person who tries to know him— _does_ know him— and cares for him.

Eliot's shaking his head now, his fingers starting another slide down Quentin's arms, ready to lift off and away. Quentin grabs his right wrist, keeps it on the cap of his shoulder.

They agreed they weren't going to overthink things.

"I'm sorry," he says, "for today."

Eliot's eyes flicker to Quentin's hand on his wrist, but come back to his face. He nods slowly. Takes a chance and strokes his thumb over Quentin’s arm. "Me too."

Quentin's heels are backed up against the brick ringing the mosaic, and Eliot still has him. If he wanted to get out, he'd have to sidestep. Eliot would have to let him go. Instead, he squeezes Eliot's wrist, trying to make it meaningful.

"I," he says. "I did, I _do_ want your attention." 

His face must finally say something other than _fool_ , hopefully _sorry_ and _want_ , because Eliot smiles at him.

"Oh," he says again, but now it's soft and warm, very inviting. His hands travel, cupping Quentin’s neck. “You do, do you?”

“Yeah,” Quentin sighs, already leaning in. Eliot meets him more than halfway, steps into his space, kissing him with enough force that he has to hold Quentin up so he doesn’t stumble over into the mosaic. 

They haven’t kissed that many times, but it’s already starting to get comfortable. It’s natural for Quentin to hold Eliot by the shoulder and hip, feels good to have Eliot tipping his head up so the kiss can go deeper.

Quentin’s breathing is deep when they separate. He’s starting to get hard in his jeans, keyed up from the kiss and the rush of relief that something’s finally going right.

“Should we go inside?” he asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the candle casting a cozy haze in the cottage window. Their bed isn’t very big, but there’s more than enough space to tumble into and make up.

Eliot’s face is very close and his eyes are dark. He’s not smiling anymore; he’s smirking.

“No. I don’t think so,” he murmurs. He leans in again, kisses Quentin before he can protest. He squeezes Quentin’s nape roughly, the way you do to an animal you’re very fond of. The feeling makes Quentin’s stomach flip.

“I think,” Eliot says, mouth to mouth, “that the mosaic hasn’t seen enough beauty yet today.”

“What—" Quentin says, dumb, and then he’s spinning, staggering to a stop with his toes up against the mosaic’s border. Eliot crowds up behind him, one arm around his chest, the other pulling at his belt. When he has it undone, Eliot presses his thumb against Quentin's belly, rubs a half-moon there.

His body is warm against Quentin's, his cock hard against Quentin’s back. Firelight illuminates his hands on Quentin. He has to curl down to put his mouth against Quentin's ear.

"This is what you want?" he whispers, lips kissed up to the hollow of Quentin's ear.

Quentin's chest is tight under Eliot's arm. The creases of his elbows suddenly feel sticky. He tilts his head, feels his blood pulse in his wrists and his dick. 

"Yeah," he says thickly. Eliot pops the loose button on his jeans. Skins his thumb down the zipper, eases his hand inside. Quentin hasn't worn underwear in weeks. Eliot grips his dick loosely, sucks lightly on his earlobe.

"Please," Quentin sighs, his hips tensing. Eliot squeezes his cock, bites his ear. 

"You could stand to say that more often," he murmurs, stroking Quentin. He bites again, on the border between Quentin’s jaw and neck.

Quentin breathes in through his nose and licks his lips. He lets himself lean back on Eliot, lets his head sag to the side. "Make me," he says, just so Eliot will bite him again. The pinch makes him close his eyes.

It goes on like that for a minute, Eliot jerking him off inside his open jeans, Eliot's mouth working on his neck, before Quentin's too hot and twitchy. His left arm is mostly pinned by Eliot's, but he can move enough to push his jeans down clumsily. Eliot doesn't stop, just adjusts his grip when his wrist and Quentin's dick is free. 

He looks over Quentin's shoulder, hums at the sight of his hand on Quentin.

"You're very pretty, Q," he tells Quentin. His strokes turn long and slow, savouring.

All Quentin can get out of his dry mouth is, "Uh-huh."

Eliot plays with the slit on Quentin's cock until it get a little wet. "It should be criminal." He lightly pinches the tip and it gets wetter. "What would all the animals out there in the forest say? If they saw you like this? That would really make them talk."

That brings Quentin up to his toes, moaning. He never even thought about it. His eyes are closed, but he can imagine it: twinkling eyes in the bushes, gossipy whispers echoing. Have they ever really been alone? His cock throbs and his empty hands knead the air.

Eliot laughs at him, nose in his hair. His left hand squeezes Quentin's chest. His fist on Quentin’s cock finally starts to speed up. 

"Dirty too," he says. "Who would have guessed? A sweetheart like you."

"Shut up," Quentin groans, twisting in Eliot's arms. His legs feel tight and restless; he can’t stop moving, but he’s stuck between Eliot and the mosaic. Eliot’s left knee nudges behind his until he lifts his foot, puts it on the brick ledge surrounding the mosaic. Eliot uses the extra space to bring his other hand down to fondle Quentin’s balls.

That makes Quentin choke on his own spit. The tightness is in his thighs and belly now. He’s straining, grinding one heel into the brick, the other in the dirt. Eliot’s hands are perfect, and he’s still biting Quentin in little bursts. 

Gasping, Quentin bucks into Eliot’s hands. He can feel how screwed up his face is, so close to it. Eliot’s mouth hot on his ear again, telling him _yes_ is what does it. 

It’s a bright stifling rush. Quentin shudders so hard he’s sure he’ll fall and take Eliot with him. But Eliot holds him tightly, doesn’t waver as the pleasure works its way through Quentin. His hands don’t stop moving.

“That was good,” he says, sweetly, right to the pleasure part of Quentin’s brain. “So good. Can you do it again?”

Quentin’s cock is still hard. He feels drunk. He can only manage to grunt, but his hips flex willingly into Eliot’s hands. Eliot kisses his temple, delighted. 

“Try,” he whispers. His breath in Quentin’s ear is as loud as Quentin’s heartbeat in his chest.

Quentin drifts on the feeling as it ebbs and flows, slowly building under Eliot’s persistence. He opens his eyes, but all there is to see are the blurry torches and the dark outline of the trees. 

Eliot kisses his throat, jerks his cock and holds his balls until something crests in Quentin. It’s different than before: smaller, aching, but it still feels good. Quentin’s not sure if it counts. His eyes are closed again. He can’t catch his breath. He’s trembling all over.

Eliot’s hands go soft on him, protectively cupping Quentin’s cock and balls. His mouth is tender on Quentin now, gentle as he whispers: _you’re okay, you’re okay_.

*

Quentin wakes up because the low morning sun is baking his face. He tries to worm away, but it's impossible. He's lumped in too tight under the covers. He doesn't have much of a choice but to either get up or to take it.

He tries to take it, closing his eyes tighter and turning his face as far away as he can. Eliot's gone, Quentin knows. The brutally tight tuck-in is Eliot's signature sign he's up already. Quentin's not sure if it's meant to be a nice gesture or not, but right now it feels great to be so securely bundled up. At least until Quentin's body wakes up enough to fend for itself, and then it’s just sweaty and claustrophobic. When that happens, he has to fight his way out of the covers and surrender to the day. 

The fire's already been stoked, cutting the cottage’s chill, but there's no food out, and not much around. Sad, solidified stew in the pot, an old bread end, and the pitcher of water, cold from sitting near the door all night.

Quentin considers the bread, but ultimately leaves it alone. He settles on drinking some water from the cup Eliot left on the table as he rubs at his eyes. He's still tired, but it's a quiet, calm tired. It feels soothing after yesterday.

He struggles into his shirt and pants and shoes, mindful of their fragility, and rakes his fingers through his hair, ducking to look in the cracked mirror over the washbasin. He’s taken aback by what he sees, never mind his bed head. 

Halfway down his throat and across the right side of his jaw are a multitude of marks, plum-purple and raw-red. Seeing them, Quentin can suddenly feel their little stings. Even his earlobe on that side feels swollen when he tucks his hair back to get a closer look. The marks are different sizes and shapes from suction and teeth, but each one is a casting of Eliot’s mouth. They feel warm when Quentin touches them, but he might be imagining that.

He tries to cover them with a palm, but it’s impossible. Some always escape. The best he can do is shake his hair free, and even then they show. He’ll have to live with them for as long as they last.

He stumbles out of the cottage, still half-asleep, to see that the sun’s not very high yet, dew still glimmering on the grass and everything in the shadows blue-grey and cold. Eliot’s not out here, no sign of him

There’s sun on the mosaic, so Quentin huddles up to it, dropping down into a comfortable crouch. He closes his eyes and lets the sun warm his scalp and his arms. 

He barely remembers going to bed. Just trusting Eliot to undress him and get him under the covers. Murkily, he can remember Eliot’s bitter fingers dipping into his mouth, followed by fervent kisses. And then he’d slept for who-knows how long, dreaming of nothing.

He feels good, recharged and more awake in the sun. He stretches his wrists out. In the distance, twigs start snapping and the long grass swishes. Quentin cracks his eyes open to see Eliot coming out of the forest from the east. He has a sack in his hand. He smiles when he sees Quentin, holding the sack up in greeting. 

He opens it beside Quentin, pulls out a berry to hand over.

Quentin rolls it between his thumb and pointer finger. It’s raspberry-red, but smooth and glossy instead of pebbled. It’s tough to chew, but still juicy, tasting like a top-shelf cocktail, the dangerous kind. It makes Quentin’s tongue tingle the same way a good cocktail does.

“You’re up early,” Eliot says, offering his hand to Quentin.

“Mm.” Quentin comes up and leans into Eliot’s body, which is warm from walking. Eliot puts his mouth against Quentin’s hair, saying with pride, “You look great. Very well fucked.” His thumb finds a mark on Quentin’s jaw, pushing until it thrums. He puts his bag down at his feet and turns to Quentin and kisses him.

A little wave of heat washes over Quentin, separate from the sun. He holds on to Eliot’s elbows, gives as good as he gets.

When he’s had his fill, Eliot pulls away, but puts an arm around Quentin’s shoulders. He blinks up at the sun, and then looks over the piles of tiles and the mosaic board. 

Quentin smiles too, seeing Eliot’s smile, even though it’s not turned on him. When it turns smug, Quentin tracks its trajectory. Eliot’s smiling at the place where they stood last night. Quentin can see the cluster of footprints in the dirt. 

He opens his mouth to call Eliot out for being some kind of sentimental pervert when he _really_ sees what Eliot’s looking at. The dry matte splatter against the shiny whitewash of the mosaic, arcing up toward the tiles they put down yesterday. There’s even a drip down the lip of the bricks.

“Eliot!” 

Eliot smiles harder, even more smugly. Quentin’s ears go toasty, his bitten one throbbing. He remembers putting his foot up on the brick, his hard, draining orgasm, Eliot’s coaxing insistence on a second one. 

“It wasn’t me,” Eliot says in defense, but he’s still looking, fully grinning now, radiating. “I would never be so spiteful as to deface our wonderful, challenging mosaic. That’s definitely your work, _beautiful_.”

Quentin pushes him, but Eliot still has his shoulder, so they just sway together. 

“We have to clean it,” Quentin says, a little desperate. The mosaic isn’t theirs. They touch the board all the time. The tiles touch it. Someone could see it. They might talk. He’s blushing.

Eliot looks at him sidelong. “You could use your mouth. I’d check your work for you.”

“ _Eliot_!” 

Quentin reels back, so he can really give Eliot the shove he deserves, but Eliot gets both hands on his face first, kissing Quentin again to shut him up, and then with some tongue, to seal the deal. Quentin feels swelteringly hot all over, tangled up in his embarrassment and arousal. 

“Leave it,” Eliot tells him, oddly fierce. “Maybe it’s magic.”

“It’s not—"

“Shh,” Eliot cuts him off, soft-voiced, but he still has Quentin’s face between his palms and his expression isn’t playful anymore. It’s greedy, definitely spiteful. Expectant, kingly. “I want you to leave it.”

“Okay,” Quentin stammers, stunned into obedience by the commanding look on Eliot’s face, the heat of his hands on Quentin’s bruises, the crown of morning light he’s wearing.


End file.
